


Hiatus

by masi



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 04:13:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4086241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masi/pseuds/masi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After leaving Kirkwall, Hawke tries to live a quiet life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hiatus

**Author's Note:**

> The plot and characterization in this fic are based on my first playthrough of the game, i.e., Hawke is a warrior who is diplomatic, supported the mages in the end, is still friends with Anders, and left Kirkwall directly after the final battle. He did not take Bethany along with him on the Deep Roads expedition, so she is alive in this fic as well.
> 
> Special thanks to [tofsla](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tofsla) for helping me out with questions I had about the publishing industry in Thedas. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!

Hawke wakes up as soon as Fenris climbs over him and out of their narrow bed. Then Hawke buries himself under the blanket and closes his eyes again. He does not get up until Fenris has brought coffee from the coffeehouse down the road and sat down at the rickety desk in front of their small window. 

Hawke shivers as soon as he places his feet on the cold floor. The room is freezing. The wind was whistling through the window all last night. The fire needs more wood. 

He and Fenris have been living in this room for exactly a week now, this small room on the second floor of a dilapidated house at the edges of the most derelict city they could find in Thedas at short notice. There aren’t nearly enough miles between them and Kirkwall yet, but he and Fenris need a place to stay for the winter. 

Hawke has tried to make the room more habitable. He has fixed the bed, which had a broken leg before. He has fixed the lock on the door. He built a small chest yesterday. There is nothing in the chest currently, but it adds a homely feeling to the room.

Hawke locates his boots, which have somehow ended up underneath the bed, and shoves his feet inside. He rolls his neck to work out the kinks, and then he stretches his arms. His muscles are aching. The shipment he was unloading just three hours ago was particularly heavy. He says, “Good morning.”

Fenris replies, “What’s so good about it?” He gestures to the two mugs of coffee he has placed between a rolled up map and the book he is currently reading. “They raised the price of coffee again. Soon we’ll have to switch to drinking boiled water, while sniffing a coffee bean apiece so that we can pretend it’s coffee.” 

Hawke walks over to the desk. He is about to pick up one of the mugs when he hears a soft knock. Fenris immediately grabs the Blade of Mercy. 

“Relax,” Hawke says. “It’s probably the landlady’s little girl. Their cat keeps disappearing. She came by yesterday to ask if I had seen the cat.”

“You can’t be too careful,” Fenris replies. He follows Hawke across the room and stands behind the door as Hawke opens it.

Hawke was correct in his assumptions: their visitor is the little girl again and not someone sent by the Chantry to capture them. She gives Hawke a tearful look as she asks, “Have you seen my kitty, messere? She’s run off again!”

“I have not,” Hawke replies. “But don’t worry. She’ll come back.” He smiles. “She came back yesterday, right?”

“Yeah.” She wipes her nose and then looks at the mug in Hawke’s hands. “Is that coffee? Mommy let me taste some once. It’s soooo yummy.”

Hawke hands her the mug. After he has closed the door, Fenris says, “Why am I not surprised.”

“I guess we’ll have to share a mug. It’ll be romantic.”

Fenris, shaking his head, returns to the desk. Hawke follows. He leans down, cups Fenris’s face in his hands, kisses him on the mouth. Fenris relaxes into the kiss, as Hawke knew he would. 

Then Fenris strokes a thumb over Hawke’s stubble, saying, “One of the merchants currently passing through town has a very nice knife in his wares.” Fenris smiles a little. “Perhaps he can be persuaded into it giving it up through a game of cards. You do need a close shave.”

Hawke rubs his chin. It still feels strange, not having a proper beard. His beard had grown very thick and long after leaving Kirkwall, but Fenris shaved it off before they stepped into this town. 

Hawke says, “Aren’t we supposed to be keeping to ourselves? Playing cards with merchants doesn’t seem like something one does when they are trying to keep their location a secret.”

Fenris frowns. “Those rules only apply to you. I can be discreet.”

“What applies to me also applies to you. We’re in this together, right?”

“Drink your coffee before it gets cold.” Fenris pushes his mug over. He is frowning as he opens his book.

Hawke takes the mug and sits down on the spare chair across from Fenris. The sun has not yet risen properly in the sky, and the air is already tense between them. This isn’t quite what he had hoped for when he used to imagine them living together. 

He watches Fenris for a moment. Fenris, quiet and glowering, brow furrowed and a finger trailing carefully over each page of the book. The sunlight is turning his hair almost translucent. His eyes have lost the sunken, listless look they had a week ago.

Fenris spends most of his free time reading. He had a larger selection to choose from back in Kirkwall and enjoyed reading the books the Chantry has banned, but now he reads whatever he can get his hands on. The edicts dissolving in the rainwater by the roadside, the underground newspaper passed around at the tavern, the supply lists at the warehouse where they have recently found employment under false names.

“What is your book about?” Hawke asks.

Fenris purses his lips for a second, still annoyed, but he answers after a moment, “It’s an old account about lyrium. Old man Egbert said he has no need of it anymore and was about to throw it into the trash, so I took it. I suppose they’ll have to revise these books soon. To include more about …” He pauses, glares at Hawke. “Never mind,” he says, almost as a conclusion. “Finish your coffee and go shave. Egbert was staring at you last night. How long do you think it will take for him to figure out who we are?” 

Fenris runs his hands through his hair, which is shorter than it was at Kirkwall and not quite as soft to the touch. Fenris has complained a few times about the lack of good hair products in this town and the amount of time the other tenants spend hogging the bathroom. He has always been a little fastidious about his appearance, even if he didn’t care so much about other aspects of cleanliness in Kirkwall, like clearing out the cobwebs in his mansion or airing out the place or removing the dead body from the door. He probably misses that house, and going after slavers, and their friends. Maybe even Anders. Or, at least, arguing with Anders. But Fenris never blames Hawke for the past or their present.

Hawke drinks half of the coffee and then hands the mug to Fenris. He says, “Egbert looks like he has his own shady history. I don’t think he cares about ours. Instead of asking our names when he was hiring us, he said, what should I call you.”

“Well, you can’t take any chances.”

Hawke reaches across the desk to touch the back of Fenris’s right hand. He says, “I love you.”

Fenris puts his left hand over Hawke’s, squeezes briefly. “I love you too,” he says.

***

They celebrate their two-week stay in this town by spending several slow hours together in bed, and then Fenris leaves to bring lunch. He returns with a basketful of warm, fresh bread, a slab of butter, and a brass inkwell.

“Where did you get that from?” Hawke asks, when Fenris puts the inkwell on the desk.

The inkwell is beautiful. It sits heavy on Hawke’s palm when he picks it up. He hasn’t used one as fancy as this since he left Kirkwall. He places it next to Fenris’s book about lyrium.

“At a shop,” Fenris replies. “That is typically where you find such things, correct?”

“Can we afford it?”

Hawke lets Fenris deal with things such as finding jobs for them and figuring out how long they can stay in a town – Fenris has more experience in such matters – however, Hawke has been managing their coin. Fenris isn’t familiar with the term “savings.”

Fenris is scowling at him. “It’s a gift, Hawke,” Fenris says. “It’s not nice to ask too many questions about a gift.”

“Well, thank you for the gift. Now I can work on my memoirs.”

“No one is going to read your memoirs when they can read Varric’s wild stories about you instead.” 

“I’m hurt.” Hawke kisses the corner of Fenris’s mouth. “You really think so little of my writing skills? Just watch me.”

He dips a quill into the inkwell and writes on a clean piece of paper: My name is Garrett Hawke. 

“Beautiful,” Fenris says. “A truly engaging first sentence.”

Hawke butters a piece of bread and chews on it as he tries to think of what to write next. Fenris watches him for a moment, and when Hawke is reaching for another slice, takes Hawke’s hand and starts to lick the butter that has pooled between the fingers. This makes writing more difficult. Hawke is considering his options – write now and not have fun, or have fun and write later – when he hears a man groaning down on the street below. He gets up to have a look.

The man, Rivaini possibly, judging by the tattoos, seems to have collapsed underneath a pile of belts. “Help please,” he is saying. “Help!”

“Who buys that many belts,” Fenris says. “Four should be sufficient. Human fetishes will never cease to surprise me.”

“Maybe he’s a merchant,” Hawke says. “He probably needs some help getting those to his boat.”

“Hawke,” Fenris says, a warning note in his tone.

“It’s fine.” Hawke heads for the door. “What can he do in broad daylight?”

He regrets his decision approximately fifteen minutes later, when the merchant expresses gratitude for the help by knifing him in the face and trying to take the belt he is wearing.

After Hawke scares the man off and returns to the room, Fenris sighs, picks up the paper Hawke was writing his memoir on, and uses it to wipe up the blood.

Hawke says, “How was I to know that he would want my own belt when he had so many? It could have happened to anyone.”

“What have I told you about doing people favors?” Fenris pushes Hawke gently down onto the spare chair and slides the inkwell over to him again. “Why don’t you write a letter to Bethany? Tell her what you have been up to in this town.”

“I can’t send it to her. It would put her in danger.”

“Write your letters, and keep them with you until it’s safe to contact her again,” Fenris says. “You can keep them in the chest.” 

He pulls out a vial of saltwater, a needle, and a thread from his waist pack. He cleans the cut, sterilizes the needle, and begins to stitch up Hawke’s cheek.

***

Three weeks into their stay, Fenris decides it is safe for them to spend an afternoon out together.

“Not every afternoon,” he says, adjusting the red scarf he still wears around his right wrist. “And not for anything frivolous. For example, we’re going out today only to buy a rug to put on the floor. Because, whenever you step on the floor in the morning, it feels like a hundred icebergs pricking your feet all at once. And let me do all the talking.” 

He wraps a large scarf around his throat and mouth to cover the lyrium markings. Then he slides a knife into his belt, right next to the Amell family crest. Hawke had tried to persuade him to sell the crest last month because they needed money for food, but Fenris had looked so hurt, Hawke had apologized immediately.

“The townspeople seem harmless enough,” Hawke says. 

“We can’t grow complacent.” Fenris pulls on a thin, fitted jacket. He will start shivering halfway to the marketplace, but Fenris’s modus operandi is aesthetic over function.

Hawke puts on a seamed cap and follows Fenris out of the house and the few blocks down the road to the marketplace. A few of the faces there are familiar to him now, but he hasn’t talked to anyone at length except for the landlady, who, like Egbert, seems to have enough secrets of her own to not care about the ones of others. It is safer this way.

He and Fenris might have to leave eventually, but he hopes they can stay here until the weather turns warmer. This isn’t a bad life, unloading shipments through the evening and night by the Waking Sea, and then spending time with Fenris throughout the day. Hawke has gotten much better at things like winning at diamondback and making Fenris come under two minutes.

It is better this way, Hawke thinks, as he watches Fenris examining a large, ornate rug while the merchant spins a tall tale about the origins of the rug. It is easier to take care of one person than a whole city. He had started to feel uneasy in Kirkwall towards the end, looking out his balcony into the city and seeing all the people who depended on him. He isn’t as young as he once was. The wounds from his past still ache in inopportune moments. The physical ones, mapped on his skin. The one is his heart, when he thinks of Mother.

Hawke reaches out and touches Fenris’s arm. Fenris glances up at him. Hawke says, “I like the rug. Let’s buy it.” 

“Alright,” Fenris says.

Hawke looks around the square. No one seems to be observing them. Everything seems fine. Except. There is one man, in a rather ostentatious red coat, walking towards them. He is lurching a little. His eyes are bloodshot. Hawke tenses.

Then he looks away. Perhaps the guy has had something bad happen to him recently. He has been crying, nothing more.

When the man stops in front of him and begs for coin, Hawke hands a few over.

“That was a mistake,” Fenris says.

“Why?”

Fenris frowns. He looks like he is on the verge of saying something, but then he clicks his tongue and turns away. 

Hawke hands over half of their savings to the rug dealer and helps Fenris carry the rug back to their room. After closing the door, he and Fenris roll out the rug. The vibrant colors immediately brighten up the room. The smell of chemicals emanating from the material is a bit strong, however, and Hawke finds himself sneezing three times in quick succession. 

Fenris laughs, an abrupt sound. Hawke smiles at him. 

They fuck on their new rug, slowly and carefully. The wind is whistling through the window again, but Hawke doesn’t feel cold. The fire is emanating a pleasant heat, and Fenris is warm and solid and beautiful above him.

***

It happens one month and one day into their stay in this town. They have just finished unloading the last of the cargo, when their boss calls them into his office and says, “You two’ve been working for a month now, right? And doing a damn fine job too. Let’s celebrate! Look what I got the other day.”

At first it looks like Egbert has taken out a bottle of wine. But then Hawke recognizes the telltale red color. How many times has he seen it now, how many times has it ruined his life. He can feel the hair rising at the back of his neck, he can almost hear strains of an eerie song, he-

Fenris says, tone polite, “No thanks. We aren’t strong enough to handle that, unlike you, boss.”

Hawke looks at him, surprised. Fenris jerks his head towards the door. 

Egbert isn’t paying attention. His eyes are fixed on the bottle. “Too bad,” he says, almost mumbling. “More for me, then! Them rich Red Templar bastards are guzzling it down every morning and night, but it took me months to get one bottle.” He licks his lips.

“Red Templars?” Hawke repeats. He can’t remember hearing the name before.

“Hawke,” Fenris says.

Hawke knows what Fenris wants him to do. Not get involved. Leave the office. Leave town, possibly. That is the safer option.

But Egbert has been good to them. Maybe it isn’t too late to help him. So, Hawke says, “Wait, Egbert. You’re making a mistake. Red lyrium is dangerous. You cannot know how dangerous it is, but I have seen what it does to people.”

Egbert glares at him. “Don’t tell me what to do, boy.” He pops the bottle open and drinks half of it in one go.

Hawke doesn’t know what to do. He does not want to cause a commotion. Not all of the workers have left the building yet. He clenches his hands. 

Egbert wipes his mouth, says, “Why’re you staring? You want some now? Well, you can’t have it.” 

Fenris takes hold of Hawke’s wrist, says, “Leave it. It’s done.”

Hawke follows Fenris back to their room.

***

Fenris is pacing the length of the rug, map in hand, trying to work out where to go next.

They could stay. Egbert hasn’t fired them yet. They could keep an eye on Egbert and watch the other workers and the shipments for more signs of red lyrium. Watch the townspeople too. That man in the marketplace, he must have been drinking it. Hawke could try to contact Varric for more information about the Red Templars.

“You don’t have to contact Varric,” Fenris says, when Hawke voices the suggestion out loud. Fenris looks at him for a moment and then looks away. “Really, Hawke, when is the last time you looked at the newspaper they pass around at the tavern?”

“How long have you known? Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

“Do you really have to ask?”

Hawke checks the edge of his sword first and then his axe. He hasn’t used them since arriving in this town, but he has kept them sharpened. Then he sits down on the edge of the bed. 

No, he doesn’t have to ask. In fact, they don’t need to have this conversation at all. They can go back to wandering from town to village to mountainside to town. He doesn’t want to get involved in things beyond his scope again and have yet another person beloved to him die in front of his eyes. He can’t bear the thought of anything happening to Fenris, who is his everything, who has suffered so much already, who stayed even when Hawke decided to throw his lot in with Orsino and the mages. Stayed by his side even after he forgave Anders. Stayed through the long, bloody battle with Meredith. Stays even though Hawke has barely anything to offer.

But how long can they live a life on the run? He can’t protect Fenris this way. Tonight was a close call. And he can’t ask Fenris to leave either, as he has done with his friends and family, not after Fenris has told him, more than once, “I can’t bear the thought of living without you.”

Hawke exhales, and then he says, “I can’t keep running, Fenris. I was doing it to protect us and our friends, but there is trouble brewing, and it may catch up to us sooner or later, and in a worse way than what happened tonight.”

Fenris sighs. He rolls up his map. Then he walks over to the desk and pulls out a sheaf of paper. 

“Write to whomever you want then,” he says. “But don’t get in over your head. Alright, Hawke?”

Hawke walks over to Fenris and hugs him close. “I’m sorry,” Hawke says into Fenris’s hair. 

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about,” Fenris replies. His body is tense. “Yet.”

“I love you.” 

Fenris grasps Hawke by the hair, kisses him hard, says, “Remember, we have not yet accomplished your dream of becoming an old and embarrassing couple. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

Hawke releases Fenris. “I’ll be careful. I can’t think of anything better than growing old and embarrassing with you, my love.” He sits down at the desk and dips a quill into the inkwell.

When he looks up, he sees that there is something a little somber in Fenris’s gaze. But it passes quickly. Or, it could have been a trick of the light. Fenris is making another sarcastic comment now, he is moving around the desk to Hawke’s side, he is opening the book about lyrium.


End file.
